Maggie
Four days in, and I'd almost convinced myself I was handling it.
Almost.
Jack and I had settled into a rhythm that was professional, efficient, and completely, mercilessly civilized. He showed up before dawn. I showed up five minutes after, because showing up first felt like trying too hard and showing up later felt like avoidance, and the razor-thin difference between the two was the kind of thing that kept me awake at night.
We worked. We talked about horses. He called me "boss," which could have been respect or flirtation or some unholy combination of both, and I chose not to examine which because that way lay madness.
The problem with Jack wasn't that he was pushing, it was that hewasn't. He was just there—quiet, competent, impossibly good at his job—and my body had apparently decided that calm professionalism was foreplay.
On day two, his hand had brushed mine reaching for the same halter. I'd flinched like I'd touched an electric fence. He'd stepped back without a word. I'd wanted to die.
On day three, I'd walked into the barn and found him with his shirt damp from exertion, stuck to his back in a way that outlined every muscle, and I'd turned around and walked right back out to have a conversation with myself behind the feed shed.
On day four—today—I was fine.
Totally fine.
"Dancer's moving better this morning," Jack said as we walked the fence line of the training paddock, a professional distance between us. "That shoeing adjustment made a difference."
"Good. I told the farrier what you suggested. He grumbled about it for ten minutes, then admitted you were right."
His eyes met mine, and the usually warm brown was clouded with concern. “He gave you a hard time?"
“Not like that,” I assured him, ignoring the warmth blooming in my chest over him feeling defensive of me. “Dennis has been shoeing our horses since before I could drive. He doesn't love taking advice from the new guy."
"Fair enough." Jack watched Dancer move through the paddock with that focused attention I was learning to recognize—not staring, not casual, just seeing. The way he took in information about a horse was almost unsettling. Like he was reading a language most people didn't know existed. "She's compensating less on the turn. Another week and she'll be moving clean."
I made a note on my clipboard. Tried not to notice how the early light caught the line of his jaw. Failed.
"The yearlings need working this afternoon," I said, all business. "Rio's been testing boundaries with everyone, and Penny's still head-shy on the left side."
"I'll take Penny. You want to handle Rio, or should I?—"
"I've got Rio." The colt was bold and bratty and exactly the kind of challenge I needed to keep my mind occupied. "He responds to me."
"He responds to everyone. He just likes testing to see who'll blink first."
"And I don't blink."
The corner of Jack's mouth twitched. Not a smile. Just that ghost of one that made my stomach do something inconvenient. "No, you don't."
We stood there for a beat too long. The paddock was quiet. Dancer was grazing. Sully was lying in the shade of the barn with his chin on his paws, watching everything with that one-ear-up vigilance he never fully dropped.
I opened my mouth to say something professional—next task, schedule update, anything to fill the silence?—
"Mags!"
Saved by the brother.
Wyatt was crossing the yard toward us, his stride purposeful but his expression... different. Not his usual business face. Something less certain, which on Wyatt looked almost uncomfortable, like wearing a shirt a size too small.
"Got a minute?" he asked, his eyes flicking to Jack and back to me in a way that said privately.
"Sure." I turned to Jack. "Check on the broodmares? I want a condition report on all four before lunch."
"Done." He gave Wyatt a polite nod and walked toward the mare pasture without hesitation. No lingering. No loaded look. Just a man going to do his job.
